I have been asked that question repeatedly over the course of seven years of book-signings for Sparrowhawk at Colonial Williamsburg’s Booksellers by eager patrons who have read the series and wish to see it on the big screen.

“Not any time soon,” I usually answer. “If it is ever produced, it won’t be by Hollywood. And if Hollywood in some episode of hubris thought it could tackle it, it would attempt to maul and dismember it, just out of sheer, doctrinaire meanness, coupled with incompetence. I would likely disown the result. After all, Hollywood hates America.”

I borrow the title of film critic Michael Medved‘s book-long critique of Hollywood (Hollywood vs. America: Popular Culture and the War on Traditional Values (New York: HarperCollins, 1992). Neither he nor his book is the subject here, but rather the culture that cannot produce Sparrowhawk or any other nominally pro-American, pro-freedom film — including the “traditional” ones which Medved has championed in his book and in various conservative and religious columns (promoting family, God, and other, non-intellectual, non-fundamental values — “Leave It to Beaver“ style, with Ward Cleaver taking questions from the audience).

I don’t think a list of films is necessary that proved Hollywood’s anti-Americanism. I could go as far back as some of Frank Capra’s films (which were not so much anti-American as pro-collectivist), and, working forward, see the list of movies grow exponentially (with a short hiccup in the 1950’s and early 1960‘s), ending with stuff like “Avatar” or “Little Big Man” or “Jarhead.”

The worst film critics happen to be conservative ones. They call for a moral cinema and constantly pine for one that does not now exist. Leftist critics have a near monopoly in the press and mainstream media, but their influence and popularity poll are hard to measure. But, as the Republicans in politics are bankrupt of ideas and cannot (or will not) offer a credible antidote to the leftist ideology of the current administration that does not include God, conservative critics like Medved cannot offer a credible antidote to the leftist mantra that America is an evil country, and an evil empire, and evil in its material comfort and achievements.

Leftists are beholden to the great ghost society; rightists are beholden to a ghost of indeterminate gender and appearance in the ether (or perhaps He’s a resident of the constellation Orion, no theologian in history has been able to pinpoint his whereabouts on the map). The leftists have been able to put over their ghost because society is ostensibly tangible: it’s you, and me, and our neighbors all over the country. The rightists can only cite belief that the creator of individual rights and freedom exists — somewhere, as an entity of semi-infinite dimensions, armed with the contradictory powers of omniscience and omnipotence — and that everything good emanates from Him, including that incidental, unimportant thing called capitalism.

In terms of metaphysics and epistemology, the leftists have a leg up on the rightists. They can “prove” their ghost exists, and why everyone should defer to it today, in personal relationships on up to coercive legislation, while all the rightists can trot out is a tooth fairy on steroids who mandates selflessness and self-sacrifice in the name of life after death.

David Brooks, writing in The New York Times, has written about “Avatar” and the Haitian earthquake. Brooks is a specter himself, materializing here as a progressive, there as a disgruntled conservative. His advice on why the Haitian earthquake was so destructive is nearly spot-on. Haiti has been the recipient of billions in especially U.S. aid to reduce its poverty, yet its infrastructure collapsed and vanished like sand castles at the onset of high tide. Haiti remains the poorest country in the Western hemisphere. Why?

The first of those truths is that we don’t know how to use aid to reduce poverty. Over the past few decades, the world has spent trillions of dollars to generate growth in the developing world. The countries that have not received much aid, like China, have seen tremendous growth and tremendous poverty reductions. The countries that have received aid, like Haiti, have not.

Here he implies, but does not identify, that it is freedom that allows countries that have not received aid (extorted from productive men in freer countries) to increase the wealth and standard of living of their citizens. China, even though it is a repressive dictatorship, allows its citizens a modicum of freedom in order to produce wealth (to better tax and expropriate). Countries that receive aid become addicted to it and never develop the morality or political institutions that promote wealth-creation. They remain on welfare, and are not encouraged to break free of it by the “humanitarian” programs of the West, which has a vested interest in being altruistic, altruism being the only virtue it boasts (and which is destructively addictive in its own right). Altruism, after all, is the enemy of selfishness and self-interest. Why would a tax-paid alms-giver want to see a country like Haiti become free of his generosity?

Brooks shows the other side of his spectral being when discussing James Cameron’s “Avatar.” (Avatar: incarnation of Hindu deity, an incarnation of a Hindu deity in human or animal form, especially one of the incarnations of Vishnu such as Rama and Krishna.) In “The Messiah Complex,“ he rightly points out that the film is a 3-D rehash of cinematic shibboleths from the last few decades of Hollywood America-bashing: colonialism is bad, the white race is bad, capitalism is bad, and so they’re doomed to be defeated by the primitive natives. He mocks the film better than I could.

This is the oft-repeated story about a manly young adventurer who goes into the wilderness in search of thrills and profit. But, once there, he meets the native people and finds that they are noble and spiritual and pure. And so he emerges as their Messiah, leading them on a righteous crusade against his own rotten civilization.

Avid moviegoers will remember “A Man Called Horse,” which began to establish the pattern, and “At Play in the Fields of the Lord.” More people will have seen “Dances With Wolves” or “The Last Samurai.”

Kids have been given their own pure versions of the fable, like “Pocahontas” and “FernGully.”

John Podhoretz in The Weekly Standard, whom Brooks cites, is even more severe:

What they didn’t tell us is that Avatar is blitheringly stupid; indeed, it’s among the dumbest movies I’ve ever seen. Avatar is an undigested mass of clichés nearly three hours in length taken directly from the revisionist westerns of the 1960s-the ones in which the Indians became the good guys and the Americans the bad guys. Only here the West is a planet called Pandora, the time is the 22nd century rather than the 19th, and the Indians have blue skin and tails, and are 10 feet tall.

They’re hunters and they kill animals, but after they do so, they cry and say it’s sad. Which only demonstrates their superiority. Plus they have (I’m not kidding) fiber-optic cables coming out of their patooties that allow them to plug into animals and control them. Now, that just seems wrong-I mean, why should they get to control the pterodactyls? Why don’t the pterodactyls control them? This kind of biped-centrism is just another form of imperialist racism, in my opinion.

(I especially appreciated Podhoretz’s remark about the natives apologizing to the animals they kill. That politically-correct and probably fictive Indian practice was in the opening scene of the last remake of “Last of the Mohicans” (1992), another turned-inside-out mess which partly moved me to begin work on Sparrowhawk.)

Podhoretz writes, observing the anti-Americanism in the movie:

You’re going to hear a lot over the next couple of weeks about the movie’s politics-about how it’s a Green epic about despoiling the environment, and an attack on the war in Iraq, and so on. The conclusion does ask the audience to root for the defeat of American soldiers at the hands of an insurgency. So it is a deep expression of anti-Americanism-kind of.

But while Brooks and Podhoretz justly explode the story and dwell on the suffocating political correctness and second-handedness of “Avatar,” they don’t defend or advocate anything. Neither of them contends that our civilization is not rotten, that it ought to be defended and preserved, and that it is superior to Pandora’s and even Haiti’s. Neither counters the charge that big corporations are inherently evil, and that its employees are necessarily avaricious monsters capable only of destruction.

Most conservatives are too cowed by their own apologetic philosophy to advocate the superiority of Western culture over Islamic or any other pre-industrial or anti-reason culture. They would be reluctant to take Voodooism to task, for fear of offending a cultural “tradition.” When was the last time Britons heard that British culture was superior to that of the Muslims who want to establish Britain as a suburb of Riyadh? And where, except on Internet blogs, do Americans read that their civilization is superior to the Indians’? It is such ’sensitivity” to Muslim culture that freed Major Nidal Hasan to open up on American soldiers at Fort Hood, in the same way that “sensitivity” to Pandoran culture freed neo-Na’vi Jake Sully to open up on his fellow humans in “Avatar.”

It is this crucial omission (or evasion) by conservatives which allows them to agree with their rivals for political power, the leftists. As the leftists cannot bring themselves to champion individual rights, private property, and selfishness, neither can the rightists. They meet on a middle ground, as they have done for decades in Congress, and agree to an alleged compromise that simply paves the way for the more consistent of them to go whole-hog. As the Obama administration has done.

The Republicans are as anti-American as are the Democrats. As Hollywood. The film that defines America is neither “Wall Street” nor “The Ten Commandments,” but, to date, “The Fountainhead.”

Brooks is a superstar pundit.  A featured journalist at The Weekly Standard, in 2000 Brooks was author of “Bobos in Paradise,” a smart look at “bourgeois bohemians,” the educated, “counterculture” crowd that had become America’s new blue state power elite.  Brooks went on to occupy the house conservative Op Ed position at the liberal mainstay New York Times and the equivalent chair on PBS NewsHour’s version of crossfire, with ever-apologetic Brooks pitted against the always garrulous lefty Mark Shields.  These two roles established Brooks as the left’s favorite conservative, a position he solidified as one of the Obamacons, prominent conservatives who supported Obama, believing him to be a moderate centrist, or in Brooks’ case, even a closet Burkean conservative. 

Last week Brooks went with his 15-year-old daughter to see a Springsteen concert in Baltimore and witnessed her joyous astonishment.  Her arrival at utter abandon echoed the exhilaration, the emotional learning, Springsteen had long ago imparted to Brooks, the depiction of a world of “teenage couples out on a desperate lark, workers struggling as the mills close down, and drifters on the wrong side of the law,” tales told with a jolt for “10,000 people in a state of utter abandon.”   

Brooks fondly describes the artistry and stories of Springsteen’s universe, “a distinct map of reality” seen on an epic and anthemic scale, in which “losers” always retain dignity and their choices have immense moral consequences, with emotions like stoicism, seen through veils of exaltation and nostalgia.  

Brooks also contemplates the artist, Springsteen himself, elusive, but for Brooks revealed by the “embarrassed half-giggle he falls into when talking about himself,” which Brooks reads as a humble de-emphasis of his own individual contributions in favor of the various musical traditions he presents. 

Brooks’ view is both charmingly personal and astonishingly superficial. It should occur to Brooks that the epic, anthemic performance he celebrates, through veils of exaltation and nostalgia, is a brilliantly constructed and much polished reach toward the mythological.  The desperate teenagers, laid-off mill workers, lawbreaking drifters are less the real folks of Springsteen’s life or American history than the figures of 60’s counterculture mythology, all of whom stand in, like Bonnie and Clyde, for alienated middle class adolescents searching for an identity.  

In an affectionate but clear-eyed analysis of the Springsteen show, Slate’s Stephen Metcalf has described this map of reality as “Faux Americana,” “a middle class fantasy of white, working class authenticity,” which Metcalf wisely attributes to Jon Landau, Springsteen’s producer, manager, and “full-service Svengali.” Landau, graduate of Brandeis and veteran of the 60’s Boston political scene, ‘discovered’ Springsteen, famously declaring, “I have seen rock and roll’s future and its name is Bruce Springsteen,” echoing left-wing journalist Lincoln Steffens 1921 remark after visiting the Soviet Union, “I have seen the future, and it works.”  Springsteen’s own politics have been decidedly left-wing: “I was politicized by the 60’s,” he has observed, and has supported John Kerry, anti-nuke, pro-Sandinista, Amnesty International, and MoveOn campaigns.   

The ‘Bruce’ David Brooks celebrates is not just the self-effacing voice of our musical traditions.  After all, in the rock pantheon he is ‘the Boss.’ Rather, the concerts are fully dramatized and choreographed presentations of Springsteen as the everyman oracle of this mythology, bourn on Wagnerian walls of sound.  Metcalf observes, the persona is constructed, “a majestic American simpleton with a generic heartland twang,” a much refined invention, all “po-faced mythic resonance that now accompanies Bruce’s every move.” 

The fanciful working class authenticity is key, the basis of the Boss’ claim on what Brooks sees as immense moral authority.  Brooks quotes Landau, that there is “not a lot of irony” in Bruce’s work, which, if you have any critical distance from the fabricated character, attendant mythology, and anthemic music, is dead wrong, Otherwise, you are Metcalf’s “rock and roll naïf,” and Landau is a circus huckster.  

Springsteen is not alone in constructing a persona, with its own mythology, claiming an imagined authenticity.  Many among the cast of characters of the 60’s counterculture, including rock stars, were in fact middle class kids who remade their own histories and identities, which is okay so long as 40 years after Woodstock and Altamont you mention to your impressionable 15-year old kid, this is show business, these are not the real gods, this is not your real history. 

But this is not likely among the blue-state elites.  Rather, it is likely that Brooks’ daughter will, at an elite university, be taught a map of reality rather close to the Boss’ faux Americana.  This is only too cruel, as it is also likely that today’s 15-year-olds will be asked to be stoical, to pay for all the mischief, all the self-serving boomer schemes, financial and otherwise.

“Hearing Bob hack out the words ‘With angelic host proclaim/Christ is born in Bethlehem’ reminds one of grandpa clearing his throat after finishing a glass of eggnog,” wrote Joseph Brannigan Lynch at Entertainment Weekly.  It’s no joke, writes Andrew Ferguson in The Weekly Standard; it’s worse than that – Christmas in the Heart is a deliberate “affront, a taunt,” to fans and downright “embarrassing.”

–

So, is it really that bad?  Not really.  Dylan’s work tends to inspire either over-praise or over-criticism, and this album is no exception (though receiving far more of the latter).

My reaction upon hearing the record lurch to life with “Here Comes Santa Claus ” in my ear buds was first to laugh; whether a joke or not, this shit is funny. Mostly because Dylan sounds so uncharacteristically jovial and (yes, I’ll say it) jolly, even.  My second reaction was relief – it’s nice to hear that from Dylan for a change.

The songs as a collection are hit and miss.  “Here Comes Santa Claus” is all kinds of strange fun; “Do You Hear What I Hear” sounds eerily perfect for Dylan, as if he could have written it; “White Wonderland” is, well, unfortunate; and “Hark The Herald Angels Sing” is, to my ears, unlistenable.

But that’s not the worst moment on Christmas in the Heart.  That dubious distinction goes to “Must Be Santa,” a hideous polka-shaped monster that terrorizes the eardrums with psychotic glee.  I shiver at the memory.

The high point of the album comes midway through, with a splendid “O’ Come All Ye Faithful” and a spot-on “The Christmas Blues” that practically begs for a spiked, spicy drink, an ablaze fireplace, and a sweatered loved one with whom to sway in the shadow of a tinseled spruce.

The standout track is “Little Drummer Boy.”  Dylan’s barely-sung hush is perfect here in a way that is hard to fathom; the band does not so much as play as suggest the music; and the backup vocals hang dutifully above it all.  The effect of the whole is a sliver of angelic light pouring into a darkened manger – beautiful.

The rest of the album is comprised of middling tunes, neither awful nor great, but perfectly in keeping with Dylan’s late career re-exploration of traditional American music.  All in all, you could do a lot worse for a disk to spin on Christmas Eve, which is exactly what I (minus one or two tracks) intend to do.

Christmas in the Heart is not Dylan’s best album, but nor is it his worst (Self Portrait, anyone?).  But it is his most explicitly Christian record since his late-70’s, early ’80’s born-again phase, which produced the Christian themed triptych Slow Train Coming, Saved, and Shot of Love. Critics hated those, far beyond what the music merited, just as they hate Christmas in the Heart.

Draw what conclusions you will.

First, the point about closet conservatives.  They come in one of two breeds: 1) those who hold conservative views but keep them quiet, preferring to avoid discussing politics altogether for fear of being sniffed out, and 2) those who not only hide their political views, but openly and falsely profess liberal views.

My good friend Martin, a professional musician, admits to me that he is among the former.  “When I’m at social events, or any gathering of entertainers, and they start talking about Bush is evil, blah, blah, blah, I just bite my tongue, because I know that even if I say something, I’m not going to have time to correct all their stupid errors and assumptions, and even if I did, there’s no damn way they’re gonna listen to me anyway.”  It sounds like you think artists are dumb, I say.  “They are,” he answers with a sigh.  “Incredibly.”

For Martin, and those of his breed, I have genuine sympathy.  An artist in his position is surrounded constantly by people with whom he must work, with whom he must get along for work to both keep coming and run smoothly.  Many of these co-workers are personal friends.  This last is no small matter – artists are intensely clannish, and form tight personal bonds.  So in my friend’s case, why jeopardize friendships?  Why jeopardize income?  Perfectly understandable, it seems to me, that he lets his friends and co-workers prattle on.

The latter breed, however, the ones who affect a liberal bias, projecting a false beard to the world, are a different matter.  This is truly insidious, because the aim here is not just to protect one’s income by muting beliefs, but to gain income (and friends, I suppose) under false pretense.

(Mr. Blowhard thinks there may be a fair number of these folk, this, “go along” crowd.  I hope he’s wrong.  I can’t say that I know any myself, and for that, I am quite glad.)

Mr. Blowhard also brings up the New Formalists, a topic which nearly everyone I speak to about this subject mentions, and so we will turn to that subject tomorrow.  But first, I want to address the last of Mr. Blowhard’s comments.  You know – advising people, both on the right and on the left, to steer clear of a career in literature or the arts altogether, because  “It’s likely to be a very hard one…. Money is scarce, success may never arrive, frustration and disappointment are inevitable, breakdowns and suicides aren’t uncommon.”

All true.  But I wonder.  Does one really have to be an author or artist to have a tough time in life?  There are lots of waitresses and dock workers and miners who have it tough.  Money is scarce for many people, in and out of the arts.  Success, the definition of which varies from person to person, may never arrive for anyone, regardless of chosen profession.  Frustration and disappointment are indeed inevitable…to any person living on planet Earth.

Mr. Blowhard asks why anyone would opt for the hard way in America, and I must say I was little surprised by that (entirely rhetorical, I presume) question.  The artists who have surrounded me my whole life – authors, musicians, magicians, actors – didn’t opt for their life.  They do what they love.  No, that’s not true.  There’s less choice than that, even.  They do what they do because they can’t not do it.

Think of Poe.  Living in squalor his whole life.  Why didn’t he just become a grocery clerk, one might ask?  Or a banker?  At least then he would have been able to pay his rent.  But that’s precisely the point.  Poe, like any real artist, loved being an author, loved his macabre visions and his ability to spill them onto paper, more than he loved his rent.  More, in fact, than he loved anything else, including his life.

Likewise, Ovid loved his verse more than he loved the Eternal City which nourished him.  Loved his art more even than his freedom, which he lost when Augustus banished him to Tomis on the Black Sea for some mysterious crime perhaps relating to his verse.  We owe a debt to every artist, who, like Ovid, chooses their art over their own comfort.

When I asked Philip Terzian, a Pulitzer finalist, if he would have any advice for an aspiring conservative author, he had a very different view than Mr. Blowhard.  “Art is about struggle – use the friction,” says the Books and Arts editor for The Weekly Standard.  Then he pointed out that, even if the literary establishment is repressive from a conservative standpoint, great literature can, and often has, emerged from repressive circumstances.  “Comfort spoils the creative impulse,” says Mr. Terzian, who then points out that a lot of the literary set who toe the liberal line and get all the right grants and tenure end up producing junk.

In the end, advises Mr. Terzian – “Do what you love.”

[Ed. note: You can read a new chapter of this eight-part series every Saturday and Sunday morning. Part one can be seen here. Part  two here.]

Matt Patterson is a columnist and commentator whose work has appeared in The Washington Examiner, The Baltimore Sun, and Pajamas Media.  He is the author of “Union of Hearts: The Abraham Lincoln & Ann Rutledge Story.”  His email is mpatterson.column@gmail.com.